Worth Saving
by Silverstar
Summary: "'I believe you're worth saving, even if you don't.' He sits there, in the darkness, alone for once, and thinks about those words. Wonders if they will ever be anything more than just words." Or, Merlin risks everything to save Arthur once again, and Arthur wonders what the point of it all is.
1. Chapter 1

**_So, I um...I have no idea where this idea came from. I wrote it down ages ago, and then discovered it again when going through the files on my laptop. Also, I promised this a while ago on my profile, so hey, I've checked it through as best I can. In other words, I'm really not sure about this but I figured I would publish it anyway._**

 ** _Please forgive me for the title. I had no ideas what-so-ever. And before anyone asks, I'm not entirely sure which season this is set in. It's up to you, I guess._**

 ** _Without further delays (unlike the trains if you live in the UK like I do) -_**

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Sitting in the darkness, Arthur doesn't move to sweep the strands of blond hair out of his eyes. He doesn't even try to rub the drying terrible scarlet of his friend's blood off the pale silver of his armour which lies abandoned on the choked leaves of the forest floor, gleaming in a thin layer of moonlight which fights to be seen through the fog. The damp air clings to him in a shivering shadow threatening to let him give into the fears pricking at the back of his mind like tiny sharp needles. Sharp, like the ice cold metal of blade piercing the air a few hours before, the deadly weapon aimed for him, before his stupid self-sacrificing idiot of a servant appeared in front of him and didn't make a single sound or cry of protest as the sword took him instead of the blond prince.

The forest is a welcome escape from the eyes which watch him constantly back in Camelot; expectations and fears of the people demanding of him to choose the right decisions for the good of the innocents clinging to the laughter and hope which ripples through the streets and markets. Arthur has been playing this game for so long that he knows how to hide his true feelings and fears beyond the mask of royalty he wears every day. His father always taught him that true men don't cry and don't show their emotions.

Arthur knows that isn't true. He's known this since the first time Merlin broke down in his arms, sobbing. The damp fabric of shirt clung to his chest as he held his friend's trembling form close and whispered words of comfort into the raven-haired boy's ears, because despite everything, Arthur Pendragon does know what it is like to feel upset and alone. He desperately wants to show it, but he can't because he is _the Prince of Camelot_ and he must be perfect, in his peoples' eyes as well as his father's. If he could look at himself, with his own tired blue ones which fight back the swimming tears that cling like traitors to his mind, then he would probably be the one in Merlin's arms, begging him to let him be _Arthur_ and not _Prince Arthur_ because he can't stand the pretence sometimes.

Sometimes, late at night, as the moonlight drifts through the heavy curtains and his people sleep peacefully in their beds, he lets himself dream. Dreams of a golden ring on Gwen's finger and his knights happy, and a cheerful Merlin next to him the whole while because he made it and they both did.

Arthur can't remember his mother. He _does_ remember the harsh words, hurled through the corridors as the faded memories of his father's grief are blamed on him, and the young blond prince stands with a quivering bottom lip and watering eyes in the shadows just outside of Gaius' chambers. But he refuses to let the tears spill over, because _your mother would have been ashamed to have a son who isn't the perfect prince like the other kingdoms_. He remembers all too clearly the overly big armour dragging his shoulders down towards the ground, and how the sword felt too heavy and hung limp in his hand. He remembers the disappointed gaze of Uther boring into his back with an agonizing wave of sadness because he will never be good enough.

A soft breeze rustles the branches, and a few stray leaves filter through the dampened air towards the fire where they are consumed by the flames, dying sparks littering the forest floor as they fade into oblivion. Arthur leans over to where Merlin lies on his back, his chest moving rhythmically in time with his breathing. Arthur tries to focus on that and not on the deathly pale pallor of his friend's skin, nor the red swirls over the canvas that is Merlin. The bandages are soaked already and his medical knowledge isn't great, but he shifts a little closer, taking a little too much comfort in Merlin's heartbeat throbbing against his wrist. Because without Merlin, Arthur is nothing. Without Merlin, he would give up on a peaceful Camelot because without Merlin he would never have a chance to be himself.

He closes his eyes, replaying the terrifying images of earlier again and again in his mind on repeat and desperately longs for a bath of some kind so he can scrape the red from his skin and clothes and burn the memories from his mind as Merlin slowly collapsed as though in slow motion in front of him, and fell heavily into his arms as the blood soaked through Arthur's shirt.

 _'_ _Why would you do this, you idiot,' he whispers to Merlin as his fingers fly over his friend's shivering and awfully skinny form, tugging at the frayed fabric of his shirt and feeling the warmth flow over his fingers. Merlin opens his eyes slightly, a deep startling blue against the scarlet of the forest floor and Arthur's hands._

 _'_ _Because you're worth so much more than me.' The answer is short, and simple and Arthur has to fight the urge to bury his face in his friend's shoulders and sob until the pain is all gone because Merlin is so wrong and he doesn't even know it._

 _'_ _Don't ever say that,' he chooses to reply in a choked whisper, his voice thick with emotion as he pulls the bandage shut and it feels like someone is shattering his heart into tens of thousands of tiny fragments as Merlin gives a small whine of pain and blinks up at him in an apology._

 _'_ _But it's true.'_

 _'_ _No it's not. I need you to stay alive, because you're the only one who treats me like me,' Arthur doesn't even try to hold back the words because they are the truth and it terrifies him how much he trusts Merlin. Merlin, with his stupid jokes and grin and dark hair and ability to cheer Arthur up as the shadows in his mind threaten to take over._

 _Merlin reaches up as best he can, resting his hand against Arthur's cheek and frowns at him. 'Well I believe you're worth saving even if you don't.'_

He sits there in the darkness, alone for once and wonders if they will ever be anything more than just words. Wonders if Merlin truly means them. And prays silently that he does.

Arthur opens his eyes and blinks. Merlin is warm against his chest, the heat radiating from his skinny form contrasting against the icy cold Arthur feels all over as he realises how close he's come to losing him. The terror this time can be fought as he clings to the younger boy. He buries his face in the ruffled mop of raven hair and fights the tears.

Arthur's lost so many people over his short life. His mother, even Uther at first, many of his friends, his knights, then Morgana, and so many more. He honestly wonders sometimes why he carries on, hiding behind the smile and yet he knows it's because of the families laughing in the streets of Camelot, and for Gwaine who sits most nights with Elyan or sometimes Lancelot in the tavern and for Gwen with her shy yet loving personality and beauty, and for Merlin when he's talking with Gaius and the entire _father-son_ relationship they have going is so obvious, especially when Merlin bounds over to help the younger servants and Arthur stands in the shadows as ever, and just watches as Gaius smiles fondly and leans back in the sunlight.

For a prince, Arthur is very good at being invisible. Clinging to the shadows that envelop the corridors of the castle and watching his people and his friends because it reminds him of why he does this.

Merlin hates hunting. In a way, so does Arthur. He hates the way Merlin hates it because the loss of the animals' lives clearly means so much more to his friend than it does to Arthur, because for Arthur it's an excuse to escape from his duties and to run through the forest with his favourite horse and favourite knights and his best friend, despite Merlin's opinions on the entire matter.

Arthur has so much hurt from the betrayals over the years that he feels like he's drowning and no one can see. He desperately wants to collapse into Merlin's arms and cry and scream because he has never been allowed to break.

He sits in the darkness alone, and lets the tears burn his eyes and runs his hands through Merlin's hair in comfort to chase away his friend's nightmares, because as soon as dawn comes to life and the patrol comes searching for them he will have to put on the pretence again.

He is Arthur Pendragon to everyone else.

But to himself he is just Arthur. And maybe, just maybe, to Merlin, that's the only person he needs to be.

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 ** _Hey, I said I had no idea where this came from! Anyway, please drop a review - I need all the encouragement I can get at the moment considering the work I've still got to complete on a project by Monday. Oh, and by the way - happy 2017 everyone._**

 ** _Reviews? :)_**

 ** _Kat x_**


	2. Chapter 2

_**Well. You guys asked for it. So here we go. Part 2 of Worth Saving. This picks up more or less where the last chapter left off, except that Merlin's injury is more serious than first thought, so Arthur doesn't wait for the next Camelot patrol to find them. It's been a while since I wrote for the Merlin fandom (although I have several unpublished fics I'm working on!) and my style has changed slightly, so I tried my best to keep it in a similar fashion to Part 1.**_

 _ **Enjoy :)**_

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Arthur Pendragon is a troubled soul.

This is how the druids describe him, sweeping cloaks hiding their expressions from view as they speak slowly in fluid words that glide like water. Their eyes glint in the dappled moonlight that filters through the clouds, but their voices cannot be heard aloud; the only sounds breaking the stillness of the night are the whistling of the breeze through the gaps in the rocks, and Merlin's heavy breaths as he fights past the fog of pain. It focuses in his chest, creeping out with razor-sharp talons and ivy tendrils that constrict in a white-hot agony, threatening to consume his very being.

 _Emrys. Hold on. Not much longer._

Merlin blinks. His hands are slippery, wet with warmth. If he could then he would look down to see why, but he can't move his head, nor any part of his being. This should fill him with panic, but he can't think past the fog. The forest is filled with pure magic that dances about him, concerned at the sensation of the warlock's life-force ebbing away into the fallen leaves below.

Druids are everywhere. Merlin can't see them, but he can sense them; feel the force of their magic filtering amongst that of world about him. The healing magic pouring over him is cool and soothing, a complete contrast to the molten bite of the wound in his chest. It settles over him like a blanket, rustling the leaves and the torn fabric of his shirt. Remembrance crashes down on Merlin in a wave and his eyes snap open, back arching off the floor as he fights against the hands that clamour to hold him still.

Merlin doesn't realise that he's screaming. His throat burns with the force of the sound, but he can't hear himself. Arthur's name is torn from his lips with a frantic cry, his tearful blue gaze scouring the edges of the clearing for any sign of his friend. A hand slips into his own, fingers entwining with his, the grip tight and protective. Merlin's magic recognises Arthur before Merlin the man does. A pair of sky-blue eyes appear above his own cerulean ones, pupils blown wide with fright and concern. Merlin fights through the ringing in his ears, searching for Arthur's voice.

"It's alright, Merlin." Arthur's voice is unusually soft, brimming with affection that he would ordinally hide behind layers of teasing remarks. "I'm here."

Merlin briefly wonders why Arthur _is_ here, amongst the druids. He is too exhausted and hurt to think about it, pain igniting across his being once more. Warmth erupts across his bottom lip where he's bitten down too hard and he swipes his tongue across the wound, focussing on the sting. Arthur leans forwards, clasping his free hand to Merlin's shoulder. His hair hangs low, brushing across his forehead and obscuring his eyes. Merlin frowns, wondering where the terrible scarlet of blood streaked through the blond locks has appeared from. The logical part of his brain recalls the sharp pain of the arrow as it hit, but everything since is hidden by the fog in his mind.

When he next awakes, the sky is pale with the light of an approaching dawn.

Merlin shuffles upright, his back stiff and taut from a night spent on the cold forest floor. Red fabric pools around his ankles, soft and smooth to the touch and instantly recognisable as Arthur's cloak.

 _Emrys, you are awake._

Merlin jumps at the sudden voice in his head. The elderly druid that perches on the rock next to him smiles, his eyes old with wisdom.

 _You healed me?_

 _That I did._

 _And Arthur?_

 _The young prince is well enough. He is waiting for you. He finds our presence…unsettling._

Merlin dips his head in gratitude and clambers to his feet. The morning air is cold, not yet warmed by the heat of the sun and remains unstirred by any breeze. Goosebumps rise along his arms and he shivers, tugging the cloak closer to his shoulders. There's a slight twinge of pain across his chest where the arrow had struck, but other than that he feels in perfect shape; he can't help but feel a pang of jealously at how much better than him the druids are at healing magic.

 _Emrys?_

Merlin pauses. _Yes?_

 _Arthur Pendragon is a troubled soul. Look after him._

Merlin frowns but doesn't reply. Sometimes he wonders who is more confusing – Kilgharrah or the druids. He sets off across the stones and down a small path that carves through the trees to the brow of the hill. Arthur is sat down, one hand supporting his chin as he leans his weight forwards against his knees. His form is silhouetted against the sunrise, watercolour peaches and blush pink caressing the skies above, framing scattered clouds with a golden hue.

Merlin doesn't announce his presence, settling down in the damp grass next to the prince. Arthur's armour is mottled with dried blood, a cruel canvas that speaks measures of the night before. Merlin reaches out, tracing his hand across the flecks and grimaces.

"That's going to be fun to clean."

It's the perfect opening for a jab, yet Arthur doesn't take it. When Merlin peers across at him, he imagines he can see the shadows clouding the blond's eyes. Merlin rests his hands in his lap and does his best not to fidget, fixing his sights on the sun-licked horizon where the rays are cutting through the fog. "Arthur?"

Arthur finally looks at him. He's paler than usual, eyes shrouded with dark circles and his hair thick with grease and muck from the forest. His hands are rubbed raw and if Merlin stares at him very carefully, then he can see the minute tremors running through the prince's fingers. For lack of a better word, Merlin can only say that Arthur looks _haunted_.

"You took me to the druids."

"Yes, well, good servants are hard to find. I wasn't about to let you die."

"Magic is forbidden."

Arthur tears his gaze away. "I know." His voice is soft, eyes downcast. "But Merlin, truly, I _couldn't_ let you die."

Merlin studies him a moment longer. The druid's words are ringing obnoxiously loud in his head and he wishes that he could shake them free to drift away into the woods like the song of the pigeon cooing in the bracken behind them. _A troubled soul_.

Merlin, Gaius always claims, is either completely oblivious or the most observant person there is. There is no in between. But when it comes to Arthur, Merlin is as observant as the druids are wise (well, most of the time). He notices how Arthur flinches on the occasions where Uther is just that touch _too_ loud or moves his hand suddenly, in his son's direction. He knows that Arthur stares longingly at the townspeople laughing in the streets and is sure to excuse himself when Merlin is speaking with Gaius. Merlin has recognised how Arthur urges his horse through the forest as though he is running from something rather than chasing their prey. But most importantly, Merlin understands that Arthur _pretends_. Pretends to be perfect, pretends to be someone he's not and pretends to be Uther's son, when he is every inch his mother's.

"I don't regret it," Merlin whispers. He wishes sometimes that Arthur would just _let go_. He tries to be there but remains brushed off with jokes and their daily banter, when he is trying to be the strong one for _Arthur_ and not the other way around. Arthur buries his pain and insecurities in a box, locks it, and hides it far away in the furthest corners of his mind, because the saying _real men don't cry_ has been drummed into him from a young age. Merlin wonders if the prince ever will trust him enough to truly reveal himself, fractured thoughts and tears and all. And yet-

"That's what worries me."

Merlin sits upright, gaze shooting across to Arthur. "What?"

"You heard me." Arthur huffs a tired laugh, broken, with no true humour to the sound. "I'm worried that one day you'll take a hit that you can't get back up from."

Merlin is lost for words. "I…"

"I can't."

"Can't?"

"Can't do this. Without…you." Arthur lifts himself to his feet, crosses his arms, and starts pacing. His armour glints in the light, reflecting across the dew-drenched grass and into Merlin's eyes. "God, that sounds…Merlin, you need to stop."

"And let you get killed?"

" _Yes!_ " The shout is filled with raw anger and pain and Merlin is taken aback. It appears Arthur is too, as he takes a shuddering breath and continues at a slower pace. "If that's what it comes down to."

"Arthur, you're the Prince of Camelot. People need you."

Arthur freezes. His back is to Merlin and the rising sun casts a golden halo around his head. His next words are barely audible, whispered into the sky across the fields beyond.

"What if…what if I'm not?"

Merlin reflects on this for a moment. He runs his fingers through the grass, watching the rainbows glisten across the surface of the dew-drops. Arthur hesitantly sits down next to, shuffling closer so that he can feel Merlin breathing, memories of the previous night still stark in his mind.

"What if I'm not who they need me to be? Because Merlin, I don't think I can be. My father looks at me and expects this grand prince, this fantastic fighter who is everything his son should be, but I'm not. I have doubts. I…" His voice rises, and he cuts himself off sharply, ducking his head. Merlin presses closer to his side, the cloak falling about both of their shoulders, enveloping them in warmth that feels too much like a hug for Arthur's liking. He digs his nails into his palms and takes a deep breath, screwing his eyes tightly shut and ignoring the prickling heat that signifies oncoming tears. He can't break. He _won't_ break. Even in front of Merlin.

Merlin tries his best not to question exactly what said _doubts_ were about, burying the nagging hope that whispers _magic_ deep down. "You don't have to be. Arthur, I may only be one man, but I believe I speak for many others when I say that I'm not following _Prince_ Arthur. I'm following _you_. There's a difference."

Arthur's trembling. "I'm sorry."

"Why?"

Arthur raises his head. Merlin takes a deep breath to try and hide his shock, because Arthur's eyes are glistening with unshed tears, red-rimmed, and threatening to spill over. His knuckles are white with tension, shaking with the exertion of trying to hold back the overwhelming emotions. Merlin gently slides his hand on the top, relaxing slightly as Arthur releases his tight grip. There are tiny crescent moons wet with blood dug in his palms and Merlin winces in sympathy.

"Arthur. Am I weak?"

Arthur is too tired to think of a witty response. Instead, he sighs and shakes his head. "No. Of course not."

"Then why are you any different simply because people have expectations of you?"

There is a pause. Then:

"You're a lot smarter than you look."

Merlin stares at him earnestly. "I'm right here, Arthur. I'm not going to leave you. And I'd like to think that I'm your friend."

Arthur had been the ' _friend_ ' of many throughout his life. All except one (Leon) had been using him. Whether it was to work their way up the ranks or simply to gain favour with a prince, it didn't matter because not _one_ of them had _cared_. Yet here was Merlin, his _servant_ , waiting with open arms to care about him, all of him, even the flawed and broken parts, without any demands in return.

And Arthur broke.

He was briefly aware of clutching at the fabric of the cloak around Merlin's shoulders and the damp patch that was now forming in the clothing (it was his anyway) pressed against his cheek. Merlin's voice was steady and soothing in his ears, arms wrapped around his shuddering frame and rubbing circles into his back. Arthur let go, and tilted forwards, relaxing entirely into Merlin's embrace. He couldn't think of anything, and discovered that he didn't want to. There was just Merlin, acceptance, and the sunrise above the hill.

Arthur took a breath, and then another. His face felt hot with tears, and when he rubbed at his eyes he felt more spill over his lashes. Merlin was warm against his side, his chin pressed to the crown of Arthur's head, chest rumbling with some distant folk song of Ealdor.

"Thank you, my friend."

Merlin was different. No matter what expectations people may have of him, he continued to live by what he believed to be right. And perhaps, Arthur thought, that was what true strength was. It was in Merlin standing up for those he believed were innocent, it was in the druids quietly working their healing magic on a servant despite the knowledge that the Prince who had brought him to them could just as easily turn them over to the king as he could leave them in peace, but most of all, it was in accepting people for who they were.

Arthur leant back and glimpsed the canopy waving at the birds above. The sun warmed his skin, chasing the chill out of the air. Merlin's eyes were wide with wonder at the sight, and with affection when he looked across to his friend.

Arthur smiled. It was shaky and uncertain, but for the first time in a long while, it was genuine.

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 ** _Will this change to a three chapter fic? I guess we'll see if you want me to write any more. As of right now, it will stay a two-shot, but hey, it was supposed to be a one-shot, so we never know._**

 ** _Review?_**

 ** _Kat x._**


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